Yelisey, at 27, had become a well-known lawyer. His firm had grown; he had taken on several partners and opened branches in other cities. He specialized in protecting the rights of women and children in family disputes, helping to achieve justice where it seemed impossible. He won difficult cases, restoring people’s faith in the law. He too had found his love — Darya, a psychologist who worked with children from troubled families. They married in the spring, a modest ceremony with a small circle of friends. Darya resembled Yelisey’s mother: quiet, wise, with a kind heart. He told her everything about his childhood, and she cried, hugging him, saying, “You went through so much pain, but you remained a good person. I’m proud of you.”
The brothers still met every day, had dinner together, discussed work, plans, and life. Their wives became friends, and their children — little Larisa and Yelisey’s newborn son, whom they named Yevgeny in honor of Yevgeny Petrovich — grew up together, like a brother and sister.
Every month, the brothers still went to the cemetery. Now with their wives. They brought flowers to three graves: their mother Larisa’s, Maria Pavlovna’s, and Yevgeny Petrovich’s. They stood in silence, remembering, giving thanks. Matvey always said aloud, “Mom, we kept our promise. We are together. We became good men. We are happy.”
Their lives had turned out well. They had built what their father had once destroyed: family, love, support, warmth. They had created what they had been deprived of — a home where they were awaited, where they were loved.
And Grigory Cherdantsev was living out his days in poverty and loneliness. He was 59. He lived in the same room in the communal apartment on the edge of the city. His disability pension was minuscule. He ate cheap grains, pasta, discounted sausages, and sometimes bought bread and tea. There often wasn’t enough money for medicine, and disability didn’t cover all the necessary medications. He had to choose: buy pills or eat.
He moved with difficulty, leaning on a cane. The consequences of the accident were ever-present: pain in his back, joints, and head. Doctors said he needed regular rehabilitation, massage, and physiotherapy. But where would he get the money? He couldn’t even afford to visit the clinic regularly.
The neighbors in the communal apartment didn’t speak to him. He was a stranger, a quiet, sullen man. No one asked how he was, if he needed help. Everyone was busy with their own problems.
His children with Yelena grew up and forgot about him completely. They didn’t visit, didn’t call, weren’t interested. Yelena had convinced them that he was a loser, a weakling, a burden. They grew up with this thought and accepted it as a given. Grigory tried to contact them several times. He wrote letters, called. Kamila would answer briefly, dryly: “I don’t have time, Dad. I’m busy.” Pavel didn’t pick up the phone at all. Yelena once told him bluntly: “Don’t bother the children. You’re a nobody to them. Get used to it.”
He got used to it. He resigned himself. He understood that no one would come, no one would help, no one would comfort him. He was alone. And so it would be until the end.
Sometimes, sitting on the bed in his squalid room, Grigory would remember Larisa — young, beautiful, with kind eyes. How she laughed, how she cooked his favorite dish, how she hugged him. How she was dying on the couch while he packed his suitcase and walked away without looking back. He remembered Matvey, the serious boy who looked at him with hope. Who said, “I will never forgive you for this.” And he kept his word. He remembered Yelisey, the cheerful, open little boy who cried when his father left. Who grew up and said, “You are an empty space to us.”
He remembered Viktoria, who left him for a rich man. Yelena, who used him and threw him away. Kamila and Pavel, who didn’t consider him their father.
They all left. They all abandoned him. Just as he had once abandoned Larisa and his sons.
Was it fair? Yes. Was it painful? Unbearably so.
One day, he decided to try one more time. The last time. He managed to get to the hospital where Matvey worked. He wanted to see his son, to talk, to ask. Ask for what? Money? Forgiveness? Just attention? He didn’t know. He just wanted to see him.
He sat on a bench near the hospital entrance, waiting. He watched the people coming and going. Doctors, nurses, patients, visitors. Life was bustling. People were in a hurry, busy with their own affairs.
And then he saw Matvey. His son was leaving the hospital. A beautiful young woman was walking beside him. She was holding a little girl in her arms. Matvey was smiling, his arm around his wife’s shoulders, kissing his daughter’s nose. They looked happy. A real family…
Comments are closed.